Little Dorrit’s lover, however, was not a Collegian. He was the sentimental3 son of a turnkey. His father hoped, in the fulness of time, to leave him the inheritance of an unstained key; and had from his early youth familiarised him with the duties of his office, and with an ambition to retain the prison-lock in the family. While the succession was yet in abeyance4, he assisted his mother in the conduct of a snug5 tobacco business round the corner of Horsemonger Lane (his father being a non-resident turnkey), which could usually command a neat connection within the College walls.
Years agone, when the object of his affections was wont6 to sit in her little arm-chair by the high Lodge7-fender, Young John (family name, Chivery), a year older than herself, had eyed her with admiring wonder. When he had played with her in the yard, his favourite game had been to counterfeit8 locking her up in corners, and to counterfeit letting her out for real kisses. When he grew tall enough to peep through the keyhole of the great lock of the main door, he had divers9 times set down his father’s dinner, or supper, to get on as it might on the outer side thereof, while he stood taking cold in one eye by dint10 of peeping at her through that airy perspective.
If Young John had ever slackened in his truth in the less penetrable11 days of his boyhood, when youth is prone12 to wear its boots unlaced and is happily unconscious of digestive organs, he had soon strung it up again and screwed it tight. At nineteen, his hand had inscribed13 in chalk on that part of the wall which fronted her lodgings14, on the occasion of her birthday, ‘Welcome sweet nursling of the Fairies!’ At twenty-three, the same hand falteringly15 presented cigars on Sundays to the Father of the Marshalsea, and Father of the queen of his soul.
Young John was small of stature16, with rather weak legs and very weak light hair. One of his eyes (perhaps the eye that used to peep through the keyhole) was also weak, and looked larger than the other, as if it couldn’t collect itself. Young John was gentle likewise. But he was great of soul. Poetical17, expansive, faithful.
Though too humble18 before the ruler of his heart to be sanguine19, Young John had considered the object of his attachment20 in all its lights and shades. Following it out to blissful results, he had descried21, without self-commendation, a fitness in it. Say things prospered22, and they were united. She, the child of the Marshalsea; he, the lock-keeper. There was a fitness in that. Say he became a resident turnkey. She would officially succeed to the chamber23 she had rented so long. There was a beautiful propriety24 in that. It looked over the wall, if you stood on tip-toe; and, with a trellis-work of scarlet25 beans and a canary or so, would become a very Arbour. There was a charming idea in that. Then, being all in all to one another, there was even an appropriate grace in the lock. With the world shut out (except that part of it which would be shut in); with its troubles and disturbances26 only known to them by hearsay27, as they would be described by the pilgrims tarrying with them on their way to the Insolvent28 Shrine29; with the Arbour above, and the Lodge below; they would glide30 down the stream of time, in pastoral domestic happiness. Young John drew tears from his eyes by finishing the picture with a tombstone in the adjoining churchyard, close against the prison wall, bearing the following touching31 inscription32: ‘Sacred to the Memory Of JOHN CHIVERY, Sixty years Turnkey, and fifty years Head Turnkey, Of the neighbouring Marshalsea, Who departed this life, universally respected, on the thirty-first of December, One thousand eight hundred and eighty-six, Aged33 eighty-three years. Also of his truly beloved and truly loving wife, AMY, whose maiden34 name was DORRIT, Who survived his loss not quite forty-eight hours, And who breathed her last in the Marshalsea aforesaid. There she was born, There she lived, There she died.’
The Chivery parents were not ignorant of their son’s attachment—indeed it had, on some exceptional occasions, thrown him into a state of mind that had impelled35 him to conduct himself with irascibility towards the customers, and damage the business—but they, in their turns, had worked it out to desirable conclusions. Mrs Chivery, a prudent36 woman, had desired her husband to take notice that their John’s prospects37 of the Lock would certainly be strengthened by an alliance with Miss Dorrit, who had herself a kind of claim upon the College and was much respected there. Mrs Chivery had desired her husband to take notice that if, on the one hand, their John had means and a post of trust, on the other hand, Miss Dorrit had family; and that her (Mrs Chivery’s) sentiment was, that two halves made a whole. Mrs Chivery, speaking as a mother and not as a diplomatist, had then, from a different point of view, desired her husband to recollect38 that their John had never been strong, and that his love had fretted39 and worrited him enough as it was, without his being driven to do himself a mischief40, as nobody couldn’t say he wouldn’t be if he was crossed. These arguments had so powerfully influenced the mind of Mr Chivery, who was a man of few words, that he had on sundry42 Sunday mornings, given his boy what he termed ‘a lucky touch,’ signifying that he considered such commendation of him to Good Fortune, preparatory to his that day declaring his passion and becoming triumphant43. But Young John had never taken courage to make the declaration; and it was principally on these occasions that he had returned excited to the tobacco shop, and flown at the customers.
In this affair, as in every other, Little Dorrit herself was the last person considered. Her brother and sister were aware of it, and attained a sort of station by making a peg44 of it on which to air the miserably45 ragged46 old fiction of the family gentility. Her sister asserted the family gentility by flouting47 the poor swain as he loitered about the prison for glimpses of his dear. Tip asserted the family gentility, and his own, by coming out in the character of the aristocratic brother, and loftily swaggering in the little skittle ground respecting seizures48 by the scruff of the neck, which there were looming49 probabilities of some gentleman unknown executing on some little puppy not mentioned. These were not the only members of the Dorrit family who turned it to account. No, no. The Father of the Marshalsea was supposed to know nothing about the matter, of course: his poor dignity could not see so low. But he took the cigars, on Sundays, and was glad to get them; and sometimes even condescended50 to walk up and down the yard with the donor52 (who was proud and hopeful then), and benignantly to smoke one in his society. With no less readiness and condescension53 did he receive attentions from Chivery Senior, who always relinquished54 his arm-chair and newspaper to him, when he came into the Lodge during one of his spells of duty; and who had even mentioned to him, that, if he would like at any time after dusk quietly to step out into the fore-court and take a look at the street, there was not much to prevent him. If he did not avail himself of this latter civility, it was only because he had lost the relish55 for it; inasmuch as he took everything else he could get, and would say at times, ‘Extremely civil person, Chivery; very attentive56 man and very respectful. Young Chivery, too; really almost with a delicate perception of one’s position here. A very well conducted family indeed, the Chiveries. Their behaviour gratifies me.’
The devoted57 Young John all this time regarded the family with reverence58. He never dreamed of disputing their pretensions59, but did homage60 to the miserable61 Mumbo jumbo they paraded. As to resenting any affront62 from her brother, he would have felt, even if he had not naturally been of a most pacific disposition63, that to wag his tongue or lift his hand against that sacred gentleman would be an unhallowed act. He was sorry that his noble mind should take offence; still, he felt the fact to be not incompatible64 with its nobility, and sought to propitiate65 and conciliate that gallant66 soul. Her father, a gentleman in misfortune—a gentleman of a fine spirit and courtly manners, who always bore with him—he deeply honoured. Her sister he considered somewhat vain and proud, but a young lady of infinite accomplishments67, who could not forget the past. It was an instinctive68 testimony69 to Little Dorrit’s worth and difference from all the rest, that the poor young fellow honoured and loved her for being simply what she was.
The tobacco business round the corner of Horsemonger Lane was carried out in a rural establishment one story high, which had the benefit of the air from the yards of Horsemonger Lane jail, and the advantage of a retired70 walk under the wall of that pleasant establishment. The business was of too modest a character to support a life-size Highlander71, but it maintained a little one on a bracket on the door-post, who looked like a fallen Cherub72 that had found it necessary to take to a kilt.
From the portal thus decorated, one Sunday after an early dinner of baked viands73, Young John issued forth74 on his usual Sunday errand; not empty-handed, but with his offering of cigars. He was neatly75 attired76 in a plum-coloured coat, with as large a collar of black velvet77 as his figure could carry; a silken waistcoat, bedecked with golden sprigs; a chaste78 neckerchief much in vogue79 at that day, representing a preserve of lilac pheasants on a buff ground; pantaloons so highly decorated with side-stripes that each leg was a three-stringed lute80; and a hat of state very high and hard. When the prudent Mrs Chivery perceived that in addition to these adornments her John carried a pair of white kid gloves, and a cane81 like a little finger-post, surmounted82 by an ivory hand marshalling him the way that he should go; and when she saw him, in this heavy marching order, turn the corner to the right; she remarked to Mr Chivery, who was at home at the time, that she thought she knew which way the wind blew.
The Collegians were entertaining a considerable number of visitors that Sunday afternoon, and their Father kept his room for the purpose of receiving presentations. After making the tour of the yard, Little Dorrit’s lover with a hurried heart went up-stairs, and knocked with his knuckles83 at the Father’s door.
‘Come in, come in!’ said a gracious voice. The Father’s voice, her father’s, the Marshalsea’s father’s. He was seated in his black velvet cap, with his newspaper, three-and-sixpence accidentally left on the table, and two chairs arranged. Everything prepared for holding his Court.
‘Ah, Young John! How do you do, how do you do!’
‘Pretty well, I thank you, sir. I hope you are the same.’
‘Yes, John Chivery; yes. Nothing to complain of.’
‘I have taken the liberty, sir, of—’
‘Eh?’ The Father of the Marshalsea always lifted up his eyebrows84 at this point, and became amiably85 distraught and smilingly absent in mind.
‘—A few cigars, sir.’
‘Oh!’ (For the moment, excessively surprised.) ‘Thank you, Young John, thank you. But really, I am afraid I am too—No? Well then, I will say no more about it. Put them on the mantelshelf, if you please, Young John. And sit down, sit down. You are not a stranger, John.’
‘Thank you, sir, I am sure—Miss;’ here Young John turned the great hat round and round upon his left-hand, like a slowly twirling mouse-cage; ‘Miss Amy quite well, sir?’
‘Yes, John, yes; very well. She is out.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘Yes, John. Miss Amy is gone for an airing. My young people all go out a good deal. But at their time of life, it’s natural, John.’
‘Very much so, I am sure, sir.’
‘An airing. An airing. Yes.’ He was blandly86 tapping his fingers on the table, and casting his eyes up at the window. ‘Amy has gone for an airing on the Iron Bridge. She has become quite partial to the Iron Bridge of late, and seems to like to walk there better than anywhere.’ He returned to conversation. ‘Your father is not on duty at present, I think, John?’
‘No, sir, he comes on later in the afternoon.’ Another twirl of the great hat, and then Young John said, rising, ‘I am afraid I must wish you good day, sir.’
‘So soon? Good day, Young John. Nay87, nay,’ with the utmost condescension, ‘never mind your glove, John. Shake hands with it on. You are no stranger here, you know.’
Highly gratified by the kindness of his reception, Young John descended51 the staircase. On his way down he met some Collegians bringing up visitors to be presented, and at that moment Mr Dorrit happened to call over the banisters with particular distinctness, ‘Much obliged to you for your little testimonial, John!’
Little Dorrit’s lover very soon laid down his penny on the tollplate of the Iron Bridge, and came upon it looking about him for the well-known and well-beloved figure. At first he feared she was not there; but as he walked on towards the Middlesex side, he saw her standing88 still, looking at the water. She was absorbed in thought, and he wondered what she might be thinking about. There were the piles of city roofs and chimneys, more free from smoke than on week-days; and there were the distant masts and steeples. Perhaps she was thinking about them.
Little Dorrit mused89 so long, and was so entirely90 preoccupied91, that although her lover stood quiet for what he thought was a long time, and twice or thrice retired and came back again to the former spot, still she did not move. So, in the end, he made up his mind to go on, and seem to come upon her casually92 in passing, and speak to her. The place was quiet, and now or never was the time to speak to her.
He walked on, and she did not appear to hear his steps until he was close upon her. When he said ‘Miss Dorrit!’ she started and fell back from him, with an expression in her face of fright and something like dislike that caused him unutterable dismay. She had often avoided him before—always, indeed, for a long, long while. She had turned away and glided93 off so often when she had seen him coming toward her, that the unfortunate Young John could not think it accidental. But he had hoped that it might be shyness, her retiring character, her foreknowledge of the state of his heart, anything short of aversion. Now, that momentary94 look had said, ‘You, of all people! I would rather have seen any one on earth than you!’
It was but a momentary look, inasmuch as she checked it, and said in her soft little voice, ‘Oh, Mr John! Is it you?’ But she felt what it had been, as he felt what it had been; and they stood looking at one another equally confused.
‘Miss Amy, I am afraid I disturbed you by speaking to you.’
‘Yes, rather. I—I came here to be alone, and I thought I was.’
‘Miss Amy, I took the liberty of walking this way, because Mr Dorrit chanced to mention, when I called upon him just now, that you—’
She caused him more dismay than before by suddenly murmuring, ‘O father, father!’ in a heartrending tone, and turning her face away.
‘Miss Amy, I hope I don’t give you any uneasiness by naming Mr Dorrit. I assure you I found him very well and in the best of Spirits, and he showed me even more than his usual kindness; being so very kind as to say that I was not a stranger there, and in all ways gratifying me very much.’
To the inexpressible consternation95 of her lover, Little Dorrit, with her hands to her averted96 face, and rocking herself where she stood as if she were in pain, murmured, ‘O father, how can you! O dear, dear father, how can you, can you, do it!’
The poor fellow stood gazing at her, overflowing97 with sympathy, but not knowing what to make of this, until, having taken out her handkerchief and put it to her still averted face, she hurried away. At first he remained stock still; then hurried after her.
‘Miss Amy, pray! Will you have the goodness to stop a moment? Miss Amy, if it comes to that, let me go. I shall go out of my senses, if I have to think that I have driven you away like this.’
His trembling voice and unfeigned earnestness brought Little Dorrit to a stop. ‘Oh, I don’t know what to do,’ she cried, ‘I don’t know what to do!’
To Young John, who had never seen her bereft98 of her quiet self-command, who had seen her from her infancy99 ever so reliable and self-suppressed, there was a shock in her distress100, and in having to associate himself with it as its cause, that shook him from his great hat to the pavement. He felt it necessary to explain himself. He might be misunderstood—supposed to mean something, or to have done something, that had never entered into his imagination. He begged her to hear him explain himself, as the greatest favour she could show him.
‘Miss Amy, I know very well that your family is far above mine. It were vain to conceal101 it. There never was a Chivery a gentleman that ever I heard of, and I will not commit the meanness of making a false representation on a subject so momentous102. Miss Amy, I know very well that your high-souled brother, and likewise your spirited sister, spurn103 me from a height. What I have to do is to respect them, to wish to be admitted to their friendship, to look up at the eminence104 on which they are placed from my lowlier station—for, whether viewed as tobacco or viewed as the lock, I well know it is lowly—and ever wish them well and happy.’
There really was a genuineness in the poor fellow, and a contrast between the hardness of his hat and the softness of his heart (albeit, perhaps, of his head, too), that was moving. Little Dorrit entreated105 him to disparage106 neither himself nor his station, and, above all things, to divest107 himself of any idea that she supposed hers to be superior. This gave him a little comfort.
‘Miss Amy,’ he then stammered108, ‘I have had for a long time—ages they seem to me—Revolving ages—a heart-cherished wish to say something to you. May I say it?’
Little Dorrit involuntarily started from his side again, with the faintest shadow of her former look; conquering that, she went on at great speed half across the Bridge without replying!
‘May I—Miss Amy, I but ask the question humbly—may I say it? I have been so unlucky already in giving you pain without having any such intentions, before the holy Heavens! that there is no fear of my saying it unless I have your leave. I can be miserable alone, I can be cut up by myself, why should I also make miserable and cut up one that I would fling myself off that parapet to give half a moment’s joy to! Not that that’s much to do, for I’d do it for twopence.’
The mournfulness of his spirits, and the gorgeousness of his appearance, might have made him ridiculous, but that his delicacy109 made him respectable. Little Dorrit learnt from it what to do.
‘If you please, John Chivery,’ she returned, trembling, but in a quiet way, ‘since you are so considerate as to ask me whether you shall say any more—if you please, no.’
‘Never, Miss Amy?’
‘No, if you please. Never.’
‘But perhaps you will let me, instead, say something to you. I want to say it earnestly, and with as plain a meaning as it is possible to express. When you think of us, John—I mean my brother, and sister, and me—don’t think of us as being any different from the rest; for, whatever we once were (which I hardly know) we ceased to be long ago, and never can be any more. It will be much better for you, and much better for others, if you will do that instead of what you are doing now.’
Young John dolefully protested that he would try to bear it in mind, and would be heartily111 glad to do anything she wished.
‘As to me,’ said Little Dorrit, ‘think as little of me as you can; the less, the better. When you think of me at all, John, let it only be as the child you have seen grow up in the prison with one set of duties always occupying her; as a weak, retired, contented112, unprotected girl. I particularly want you to remember, that when I come outside the gate, I am unprotected and solitary113.’
He would try to do anything she wished. But why did Miss Amy so much want him to remember that?
‘Because,’ returned Little Dorrit, ‘I know I can then quite trust you not to forget to-day, and not to say any more to me. You are so generous that I know I can trust to you for that; and I do and I always will. I am going to show you, at once, that I fully41 trust you. I like this place where we are speaking better than any place I know;’ her slight colour had faded, but her lover thought he saw it coming back just then; ‘and I may be often here. I know it is only necessary for me to tell you so, to be quite sure that you will never come here again in search of me. And I am—quite sure!’
She might rely upon it, said Young John. He was a miserable wretch114, but her word was more than a law for him.
‘And good-bye, John,’ said Little Dorrit. ‘And I hope you will have a good wife one day, and be a happy man. I am sure you will deserve to be happy, and you will be, John.’
As she held out her hand to him with these words, the heart that was under the waistcoat of sprigs—mere slop-work, if the truth must be known—swelled to the size of the heart of a gentleman; and the poor common little fellow, having no room to hold it, burst into tears.
‘Oh, don’t cry,’ said Little Dorrit piteously. ‘Don’t, don’t! Good-bye, John. God bless you!’
‘Good-bye, Miss Amy. Good-bye!’
And so he left her: first observing that she sat down on the corner of a seat, and not only rested her little hand upon the rough wall, but laid her face against it too, as if her head were heavy, and her mind were sad.
It was an affecting illustration of the fallacy of human projects, to behold115 her lover, with the great hat pulled over his eyes, the velvet collar turned up as if it rained, the plum-coloured coat buttoned to conceal the silken waistcoat of golden sprigs, and the little direction-post pointing inexorably home, creeping along by the worst back-streets, and composing, as he went, the following new inscription for a tombstone in St George’s Churchyard:
‘Here lie the mortal remains116 Of JOHN CHIVERY, Never anything worth mentioning, Who died about the end of the year one thousand eight hundred and twenty-six, Of a broken heart, Requesting with his last breath that the word AMY might be inscribed over his ashes, which was accordingly directed to be done, By his afflicted117 Parents.’
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1
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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abeyance
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| n.搁置，缓办，中止，产权未定 | |
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5
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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penetrable
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| adj.可穿透的 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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13
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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falteringly
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| 口吃地，支吾地 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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insolvent
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| adj.破产的，无偿还能力的 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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40
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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41
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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42
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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43
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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45
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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46
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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47
flouting
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的现在分词 ) | |
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48
seizures
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| n.起获( seizure的名词复数 )；没收；充公；起获的赃物 | |
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49
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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50
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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51
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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52
donor
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| n.捐献者；赠送人；(组织、器官等的)供体 | |
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53
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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54
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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55
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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56
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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58
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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59
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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60
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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61
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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62
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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63
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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64
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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propitiate
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| v.慰解，劝解 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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68
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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69
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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70
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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highlander
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| n.高地的人，苏格兰高地地区的人 | |
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72
cherub
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| n.小天使，胖娃娃 | |
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73
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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80
lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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81
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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82
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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83
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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84
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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85
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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86
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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87
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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88
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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91
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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93
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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95
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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96
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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97
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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98
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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99
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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100
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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101
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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102
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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103
spurn
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| v.拒绝，摈弃；n.轻视的拒绝；踢开 | |
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104
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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105
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
disparage
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| v.贬抑，轻蔑 | |
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107
divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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108
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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110
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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111
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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112
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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113
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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114
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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115
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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116
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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117
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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